‘I’ll always remember you, but I cannot…’
Cannot lie to you any more.
‘Goodbye, Cris.’
My love.
She was halfway across the room and he was half out of bed, the frame over his injured leg knocked away, one foot on the floor. Behind her the door banged open and Alex strode in.
‘What the devil is going on in here? There was an almighty crash, I thought you’d fallen out of bed.’
‘Tamsyn is trying to leave. Stop her.’
‘I must go home, Lord Weybourn. Please could you ask someone to secure me a post chaise to leave at ten? I must call at the dealer’s shop and retrieve the paintings and I can hardly take them on the stage.’
‘I’ll send you in one of my carriages,’ Alex said over his shoulder as he advanced on Cris. ‘Get back into bed, man, for heaven’s sake, or Tess will have my guts for harp strings.’
Tamsyn closed the door on them and ran. Tess and Gabriel would help her get away before she did something unforgivable and agreed to marry the man she loved.
*
It was good to be home. There was a peace to be found in the endlessly changing weather, the finality of land meeting ocean, the timeless rhythms of the farms and the fisheries.
A week after she’d returned home Tamsyn made herself walk to the clifftop where Jory had gone to his death. It was the first time since that afternoon and she knew now it was finally time to lay that ghost to rest. She sat down on a rock that pushed out of the rabbit-nibbled turf, its base fringed with purple thrift, and gazed out to sea. One day people would walk on these cliffs and look out at this view and they would know nothing of her, or her love or of tragedies long ago. That was strangely comforting.
The grass muffled footsteps and the man was almost on her before she heard him and turned. The tall figure was silhouetted against the bright sky and for a second her pulse stuttered and a wild hope ran through her, only to be crushed a moment later when Dr Tregarth stopped at her side.
‘Tamsyn. They told me you were home again.’ He sat down on the rock, took off his hat and let the wind ruffle through his hair. ‘It is good to see you again.’
‘And you. Is everything well in the village? The aunts knew of no problems to recount to me.’ He was such a comfortable presence at her side that she was almost tempted to lean against his shoulder.
‘Little Willie Stephens broke his arm falling out of Mr Pendleton’s apple tree, the Penwiths’ pigs got out and rooted up old Mrs Fallon’s vegetable patch, and Lucy Williams was brought to bed of a fine pair of boy twins, which would be a cause for rejoicing if only she could work out who the father is.’
‘The field of candidates being somewhat large, I expect.’
‘Somewhat,’ he agreed drily. ‘Are you back to stay?’
‘I am.’ If anywhere could heal her, this place could. Or, rather, she could learn to live with the loss of Cris de Feaux here better than anywhere else.
‘So…’ He heaved a sigh as though exasperated with his own hesitation. ‘Defoe. I thought you might marry him.’
‘Mr Defoe is, in fact, Crispin de Feaux, Marquess of Avenmore.’
‘Is he indeed! And so he did not ask you?’
‘Yes. He did and I refused him.’
‘Why on earth would you do that?’
Probably Michael Tregarth was the only man she could talk to about this. She was so healthy that she had never had to consult him, but if she needed a doctor, then he was the one she would go to.
‘I cannot have children. I was pregnant when Jory died. I was there and the shock brought on a miscarriage and the doctor told me that I could never…’ She swallowed the lump in her throat and pressed on, determinedly matter of fact and sensible. ‘So there is no way that I could, in all conscience, marry a nobleman who needs heirs. Besides all the other things, like the disparity in our ranks and his friends disapproving.’ Although it occurred to her that Tess and Alex did not seem to be against her and Gabriel had definitely softened.
‘Who told you that you could not carry another child?’ Tregarth demanded.
‘Dr Philpott, who was here before you came. You never met him, of course, he had a stroke and there was several months before you arrived. I was quite ill after Jory died, with the shock and the miscarriage. I was in a fever for almost a week. When I was recovering he said I would be…’
‘Sterile. Hmm. How did Defoe—sorry, the marquess—take that?’